The Killing of Wolfgang Luth: Who? What? When? ... Why?

“So who is Blood of Israel?” Ziggy asked.

Sebastian gave an ironic smile as he refilled their glasses. “Better you should ask who isn’t Blood of Israel?” Ziggy waited for him to elaborate but instead Sebastian said, “We’re buying land in Palestine, at least my group is. Putting in kibbutzes, nice places, everybody gets along, everybody shares. We’ve started raising vegetables, fruit, oranges, grapefruit, lemons, olives. Have you ever seen an olive tree, Ziggy? They’re incredible.”

Then Sebastian’s face darkened. “But of course, that’s just our group. There are others; anti-socialists, ultra-socialists, revisionists; the Jabotinsky’s, Lehi. More than you can keep track of. Most of the time we work together okay, but now it’s getting funny.”

“Is that what happened at the cove that night?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what happened. All I know was the day before there were all these Jabotinsky-types dressed as Luftwaffe. The next day they were gone. Even I get told only so much.”

“So how do we know this isn’t going to happen again?”

“Relax, there’s not that many people involved. And we only came up with our current plan yesterday when we got the fuel. Plus, the flying boats attracted too much attention. Everybody suddenly wanted to get into the act. No one will bother to think about midget submarines at all.”

“So how did you get the fuel?”

Sebastian shook his head and laughed. “I don’t mind telling you it was truly epic. The kinds of things that happen. We arrange to pump some from the minesweepers and right before we can do it, what happens? They get ordered north by the British. We divert a tanker truck full of diesel from the British, what happens? It gets hijacked by some Scottish infantry who for all I know probably have a deal going with Danish gangsters who’re taking over all the trucking in this part of Germany.”

“And then I realized the solution was right here under our nose. The German Navy might not have a drop to spare, but the Marineschule keeps a nice little store of its own for training cadets in handling large harbor craft. The British didn’t even know about it. It was just a question of finding a way of getting it released to us.”

“I’m telling you, it was a lot easier when the war was still on. Things were a lot more cut and dry. See a guy in an SS uniform, your first thought isn’t how can I get him to do things for me, it’s how do I slit his fucking throat for maximum effect and still get away.”

“And that’s what you did the whole war?” asked Ziggy.

“Well not the whole war. The real killing campaign only started this year, when it became easy to send people in. Before that, we’d infiltrate people into SS units and get information from them, occasionally blow something up, but mostly just basic intelligence stuff. Not that different from what Manni was doing.” Sebastian paused a moment, then added, “In fact, Manni’s been doing plenty of assassinations himself. He won’t tell you that, but our people spotted him in the Ruhr. Once he even got one of our people out of a Gestapo jail, without even knowing who he was. Just went in and did it. It’s not what the British hired him to do, but you know Manni, he likes to do things on his own.”

Ziggy shrugged. “War turns us all into killers.”

The parlor had striped wallpaper, peeling and weathered at the edges, with groupings of tiny framed paintings. There were so many, it was difficult to focus on any one. Ziggy looked at Sebastian, who had fallen silent, a troubled look on his face. His eyes avoided Ziggy as he stared at the wallpaper. Finally, he spoke. “Manni doesn’t think we should go to Palestine, ”he said quietly. “He thinks that once we get Franzi out we should take the gold and fly to Spain. We can keep the fuel money. Nobody knows about that.”

He paused again, rubbing his fist against his lips. Then he stared back at Ziggy. The light had gone out from Sebastian. Now all he looked was tired and desperate.

“I want to get away from this shit, Ziggy.” Sebastian dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He let out a sniff. “I don’t want to keep doing this Blood of Israel. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the killing.”

Ziggy stared at Sebastian. “But what about Palestine, Sebastian? I thought your dream was going to a kibbutz and raising olives?”

“Fuck olives,” mumbled Sebastian. “I’m tired of all this.”

“Tired of being a Jew?”

“No! Yes! No, of course not!” Sebastian let out a long sniff. “I’m tired of the cause. I just don’t want to be part of it anymore. I don’t want people pointing at me and saying ‘do you know what he did?’” Sebastian gave a sheepish grin. “Besides, how long would I last on a farm? A half hour? Fuck Palestine. Let's just go to Spain.”

Ziggy had to laugh. “If we go to Spain, we’ll spend the rest of our lives with everyone thinking we’re Nazis.”

“I don’t care,” sniffed Sebastian.

“How many times can you put the past behind you, Sebastian? I’m sick of new beginnings.”

Sebastian suddenly brightened. “But don’t you see? It won’t be a new beginning at all. We’ll be going back together, to what we were.”

“And how are we going to pay to get to Spain?”

“With the gold the SS gave us for the fuel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When the SS agreed to give us gold to pay for the fuel, we still know Manni would have one of his own people taking over the fuel dock and we’d get the fuel for free.”

“Take over from whom?”

“Luth.”

“Luth was in charge of the fuel?”

“He was rector of the Marineschule, wasn’t he?”

“Well yes, so you would have had to pay off Luth to get the fuel?”

“Yes, that was where everything stalled.”

Ziggy looked at Sebastian and suddenly felt everything crumbling around him. “You killed Luth?”

“Hey, we made him a nice offer and he wouldn’t take it. He acted like a complete prick. He even asked if we were Jews. Can you imagine that? After all we’ve been through, to have some God damn Nazi prick ask, ‘Are you Jews?’ I mean the nerve of some people!”

“You killed...Luth?”

“What do you care? It’s one less Nazi in the world. And he was a real Nazi, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Ziggy, staring back at Sebastian. “He was also my captain.”

“I know who he was.”

They stared at each other in leaden silence. “Why did you have to kill him?”

“I beg your pardon, Zigmund, but do you think I need an excuse to kill a Nazi? You really have been in the Navy too long.” Sebastian shook his head incredulously. “If you have a problem with it, try remembering that we’re doing this for Franzi and to bring those SS bastards to justice.”

“And you killed him over fuel oil?”

“I did it for Franzi!” Sebastian’s irritation was now in the fore. “I mean this is stupid, Zigmund. You need to get over this. We’ve got a big task ahead of us and there’s not any point talking about some fucking dead Nazi.”

“It’s not about Luth,” said Ziggy, calmly staring at his brother as if from opposing cliffs. “It’s about Cremer and the men. If they knew any of this, they wouldn’t want to help you. And I’m not going to drag them into it. This is not how the Navy does things.”

Sebastian was furious. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re suddenly too good for us? Have you already forgotten what you were a part of?”

Ziggy shook his head. “I’m through with this. I don’t want to talk to you again. Keep away from me and Cremer.”

“You’re going to let Franzi die, just so you and your men can keep your white gloves immaculate? I’m not going to let this operation go down because of your willful, high-handed selfishness.” Sebastian stared hard at Ziggy. “Don’t for a moment think we’re going to let you back out.”

(Excerpt from Germania, published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

KG200 Flying Boats Explode in Flensburg Harbor

The four flying boats were being kept in a remote corner of Flensburg harbor in a cove nestled among the broken hills which descended like steps from the side of the fjord.

It was where utility boats, small barges and other shallow-draft harbor craft docked and where the harbor patrol had one of its auxiliary stations. Shortly after the aircraft’s unannounced appearance, Doenitz ordered them towed there, in order to keep them inaccessible and out of public view. Their crews were ordered off them, except for a handful that stayed to look after the aircraft. In addition, a guard was placed there around-the-clock to prevent any unauthorized tampering.

But when Cremer and his men drove in through the compound’s back gates, they were surprised to find that everything was dark and none of the buildings showed any indication that anyone was inside. Then, hearing a low whistle, Cremer peered into the dark and saw one of his petty officers crouched among some stacked pipe, furtively waving at them. He and the others had been hiding there all day, he told them. Several hours earlier, a detachment of kettenhunde, Naval guardsmen, drove up from town and ordered everyone out, after which all the lights were shut down. All but one of the lights, he told Cremer, insisting he come up and see for himself what was going on underneath it.

They quietly made their way down the hillside to an equipment-strewn storage yard built onto the bluff overlooking the cove. Looking toward the harbor, Cremer could see the light of the streetlamp blazing into the blackness. On the way they came to a row of small metal storage sheds, in whose shadow four more of his men were hiding, including Manni Loerber, dressed in navy coveralls and trying hard not to look like a lifetime civilian. One look at his face and it was plain that he had no idea what had happened to the British either.

Leaving the others there, Cremer and the petty officer continued crawling up to the edge of the bluff. Cremer looked down and saw the lamp, standing at the foot of a small boat dock which extended out into the water like a long, narrow finger pointing at the spot out in the water where, half-hidden in the shadows, the four mammoth aircraft were moored.

But that wasn’t all. Clustered underneath the lamp stood a large group of people, easily thirty of them, mostly men, but a few women as well, all of them dressed for travel, in raincoats and heavy hats. They stood with baggage at their feet, as if waiting for a bus. Most of the men were heavyset in a way that suggested their girth was commensurate to their importance, men used to living well and eating amply. Gauleiters, thought Cremer. The handful of women were, on the other hand, nearly all tall and slim, and probably quite young. Only one or two looked like they might be wives.

There were others as well, Luftwaffe personnel, some in utility coveralls and flying suits, others in combat gear, clutching submachine guns. They moved about, attending busily to this and that, talking with each other, checking their watches, occasionally staring out speculatively into the darkness, keeping purposefully apart from the passengers.

The travelers started arriving an hour earlier, the petty officer whispered to Cremer. They’d come in their own cars, which the Luftwaffe men then took and drove away to a far corner of the yard. It had been forty minutes since the last one had arrived. They seemed to be still waiting for somebody.

Out on the water, one of the flying boats was starting to come to life. A row of circular lights blinked on along its fuselage, from below the cockpit to amidships. A moment later, another line snapped on, this one slightly lower than the other, going from amidships all the way to the tail. They weren’t running lights, Cremer realized, but portholes. Someone inside was turning on the interior cabin lights. Red lights filled the cockpit as the silhouettes of two men moved into the compartment and settled into their seats. They’re going through their primary instrument checks, Cremer thought. It’s still going to take a few minutes.

Cremer and the petty officer crawled back. Gathering everyone around him, Cremer laid out his ambush plan and showed everybody their positions. They’d wait till his signal before starting anything. The idea was to get them out in the open, away from their cars, hopefully up on the pier where their escape would be cut off. They would wait until Himmler’s group got clear of their cars but before they reached the dock and could join up with the milling group. Cremer would blow his whistle and the petty officer would use the bullhorn to announce they were all under arrest and unless they wanted to be shot they would immediately toss away their weapons and get down on the ground.

If shooting started, which he expected, they were to concentrate on the muscle, the guys with the machine guns. They’d prefer to capture Himmler alive, but if he made things difficult, then too bad for him! But mainly they wanted to pull Franzi Loerber away from the group. He was the one who looked like Captain Loerber and his brother Manfred here. Take a good look at them in case you don’t already know what they look like, gentlemen. Good luck to us all!

Everyone went to their positions. Suddenly everything was quiet again. Cremer looked at Ziggy, crouched in the shadows. He was looking strange again. What was with him, Cremer wondered. He’d known him most of his adult life and that whole time he was the straightest, calmest, most unimaginatively reliable man he’d ever met. But once back in the bosom of his weird family, he’d become a different person, someone given to trances and psychic pronouncements. And Manni, what the hell was he? When Ziggy had introduced them the day before, Cremer’s immediate impression was that the guy was a total freak.

Staring out past the flying boats into the harbor, seeing the buoy lights swaying with the waves, he thought of all the U-boat patrols he and Ziggy had been on, back before Ziggy had gotten his own command. He wondered if his friend’s famous luck only held at sea or if it would extend to land operations. He prayed it would, since without it, this misbegotten adventure would likely end up in a complete massacre. Their only real chance was to get Himmler’s group off-guard and bluff them into believing there was something more formidable coming at them than a bunch of U-boat sailors armed with pistols and Tommy-guns.

Out in the harbor, all of the anchored warships kept their lights burning, if for no other reason than to not be obstacles to navigation. It made Flensburg harbor look alive and bustling. But the sad fact was that by this point, except for the minesweepers, few ships had anything more than skeleton crews aboard them. Their crews were all permanently ashore now, either massed in some British-run prisoner of war enclosure or waiting to be put in one, or already demobilized and sent home. As for the ships, unless the allies chose to use them for something, they were all lifeless things.

A few small patrol boats combed the waters, searchlights blazing back and forth, happily oblivious to what was going on nearby on land. That’s it, thought Cremer, keep the tension up, but nothing out of the ordinary. Don’t spook them, don’t let them think any of this is the slightest bit different.

The Luftwaffe man in charge stepped out on the dock where the people on the flying boat could see him and held his hands out to show he didn’t know where whoever-it-was, was. Then he turned to the passengers and told them something which didn’t seem to allay their growing impatience. Cremer looked at his watch and realized twenty minutes had gone by. Where were they? What were they supposed to do if Himmler’s group didn’t show? Could it be that they were actually escaping some other way. This whole thing was definitely a massive cock-up.

“Headlights!” someone whispered.

“It’s them!” hissed someone else from the other side of the rise. “Two Horches!”

From where he was, Cremer couldn’t see anything, except scattered illuminations of the headlights on some of the moored boats. But he could hear the approaching cars’ engines coming up the harbor road.

But the Luftwaffe men could see them. One of them began walking up the dock, signaling the pilot. Immediately the flying boat’s six engines sputtered and whined as the large, three-bladed propellers began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the engines’ metallic whine turned into a loud roar. At the same time another Luftwaffe man stepped forward and waved for the Horches to come up close. But instead, the cars halted nearly a hundred yards away. After a quick, heated exchange of words with the man on the dock, he and two others started towards the cars to see what the deal was.

“Shit!” hissed Cremer. “We need to move over, where we can see what’s going on. Quick!”

They stepped back to keep out of view, then, silently as they could, made their way over to the side of the bluff overlooking the harbor road. It turned out they couldn’t see anything from there either. Cremer turned and saw Ziggy, looking more lost and desperate than ever before.

“What is it?” they heard one of the Luftwaffe men yell at the Himmler party. “You’re supposed to drive up. We’re not running a porter service here.”

“I want you to put out that light!” Macher’s voice yelled back. “Now!”

“We need it on! We’re still loading!” the Luftwaffe man shouted back angrily.

“That’s your problem,” barked Macher. “Kill it now!”

A moment later someone hit a switch and everything was back in darkness. “All right, then,” said Macher. “Keep coming.”

Then there was silence. Cremer started moving to another position. Finally he found a spot where he could see the cars. But in the darkness it was hard to make out anything. There were people moving around, bending over and picking up things. He tried to figure out who was who, but there was so much commotion, he got confused.

Four of them started walking toward the dock in a tight group. Then he recognized the trilby hat he’d seen Himmler wearing back at the farmhouse. Here we go, he thought, slipping the police whistle between his lips. He just needed to get them a little further from the cars, a little closer to the dock and then he’d give the signal.

Then, suddenly, a siren ripped through the stillness and at the same time searchlights flashed on, striking the group with their blinding beams. There was shouting as hands shot up to shield faces from the searing light. Then shooting broke out and the group that had momentary been frozen, broke into scattered, frenzied flight. Two of the figures began running toward the dock, ripping off their overcoats as they did, shouting and waving desperately not to shoot them. But the other two ran back, to the cars, all the while returning submachine-gun fire. More fire was coming from the cars as their engines roared back to life. As the sirens continued to howl, some of their fire hit the searchlights, several of which instantly faded out. One of the men running toward the docks screamed as he collapsed, writhing to the ground. The other clutched his arm before the side of his head exploded.

Cremer stood up. “Everyone hold your fire!” he shouted at his men.

Meanwhile on the dock the passengers were scattering any direction they could, some running into each other, some jumping into the water, others getting hit by bullets, bleeding, screaming with the outrage, the injustice of it all.

And then, just as suddenly, the flying boat exploded in a huge burst of flame.

As the explosion thundered, blotting out even the wailing siren, there was a screeching of tires and a roar of engines as the two Horches turned and tore back down the way they came, still firing at their ambushers as they did.

Frantically, Cremer started gathering his dazed group. “Pull back!” he shouted. “Quickly! We’re getting out of here! Now! Move!”

But Ziggy wasn’t moving. He looked blankly at Cremer, who, seeing his disorientation, grabbed his arm and, with the help of one of his men, pulled him along as they withdrew back up the hillside.

By the time they reached their cars, the huge aircraft was being consumed in flames that lit up the sky. There was a continual cracking of smaller explosions as ammunition inside the aircraft cooked off. Cremer wondered how he was ever going to explain any of this to Doenitz. But at the moment his main urge was to get his men out of there.

“Everyone into the cars,” he ordered in a calm voice.

But Manni stepped in front of him, resolute and serious. “We’ve got to go back and get Franzi!” he shouted.

“How the hell are we going to do that?” Cremer shouted back. “We don’t even know where they’ve gone.”

“I bet Ziggy knows,” said Manni. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders and gave him a slight shake. “Where are they going, Ziggy?” he asked softly, as one might question a child. “Where are they taking Franzi?”

Ziggy looked at Manni like he didn’t recognize him. “Franzi?” he asked. “Franzi?” He turned and stared down the harbor road, like he was waiting for a reply. Then he looked at Manni and then at Cremer, his eyes alert and clear.

“They’re on their way to Schloss Glucksburg,” he told them. “They’re going to make Speer pay for this!”

(A different version of this story, told from Himmler party's point of view, appears in Germania, published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here.)

Flensburg: Beers with British Spies

When Ziggy returned to the offices, Ludde Neurath was sitting at his desk. He looked worried. “Some British officers came looking for you,” he said.

“For me?” asked Ziggy, wondering what Westerby wanted this time.

Ludde Neurath nodded. “Two of them. They wanted to bring you over to the Patria for questioning.” He searched Ziggy’s eyes while he spoke. “The Old Man thought there was something dodgy about them and told them they couldn’t. He told them it wasn’t part of the deal. He said if they wanted to talk to you they would have to either do it here or they could arrest you, in which case their request would have to be in writing.”

“Oh,” said Ziggy, relishing the thought of Westerby getting turned away. “So what was dodgy about them?”

“The way they wouldn’t identify themselves,” said Ludde Neurath. “They didn’t have any papers authorizing them. Usually we get some notification first. They also weren’t interested in talking to you here. When I told them you’d be back, they said they didn’t want to wait.” He waited a moment, then asked solemnly: “Is there something you should perhaps be telling me about?”

Ziggy shrugged dismissively. “There was a British officer who hounded me a little when I was at Montgomery’s headquarters,” he said. “And he was waiting for me at the airport when we came back from Berlin. He knows that my brother was with Himmler’s party that night in Ploen. He thinks I might know where they are now.”

“Do you?” asked Ludde Neurath.

“No,” answered Ziggy.

“That’s good,” said Ludde Neurath. “We were thinking, maybe you shouldn’t be here from now on. We can have you doing something less visible until things quiet down.”

“Let me think about it,” Ziggy told him.

Ludde Neurath nodded and went back to the inner suite. The afternoon wore on. The flow of supplicants and other visitors petered out. At six o’clock Ludde Neurath told Ziggy he could leave. Ziggy fetched his leather overcoat and left. On his way down the stairs he saw a British officer waiting at the landing below, leaning against the window chatting with a janitor. It was Westerby. Seeing Ziggy approach, he straightened up, and, smoothing down his jacket with a quick sweep of his hands, broke off his conversation with the janitor and stepped forward into Ziggy’s path.

“Ahh, Capitan Loerber!” he said, feigning surprise and delight. “How nice to see you.”

“Good afternoon, Major Westerby,” answered Ziggy.

“So how are things?” Westerby asked.

“Oh, everything seems to be going just fine. How is it for your group?”

“Oh, busy, busy,” said Westerby. “You know how it is. There are never enough hours in the day. They have us running around from one place to the next. Half our orders are contradictory.” He fumed agreeably to show they were both essentially in the same boat.

Ziggy nodded.

Westerby widened his eyes. “Come for a drink,” he said. “I know a little place just around the corner.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “What do you say? Beer and a chin wag among colleagues. Besides, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

At least it was a different tack from the strong-arming they’d evidently tried upstairs, thought Ziggy. He’d appreciated how Doenitz had stood up to them, but he also doubted there was much point in trying to resist. If they wanted to interrogate him, they’d easily find a way.

“A beer would be nice,” agreed Ziggy.

“That’s the ticket,” said Westerby. “Right, come along.”

They walked quickly out the gates and downhill toward the waterfront, their boots marking a crisp tattoo against the cobblestones. They passed milling groups of forlorn, resentful-looking soldiers, Westerby nodding to them while keeping up his jaunty pace, like this was a fine day and he was glad to be strolling around, enjoying the air. Up ahead the Patria loomed gray and ugly in the dimming, early evening light. Ziggy noticed it had a Union Jack fluttering atop its mast.

Once underway, Westerby no longer seemed compelled to make small talk. Ziggy could sense an alertness and intensity to him he hadn’t noticed previously. As they made their way along the quayside past the tied-up tugs and minesweepers, Ziggy wondered what the interrogation would be like. Westerby’s cordiality didn’t fool him. He already knew that for all their outward manners the British were real bastards whenever there was something they really wanted. Once they’d have him aboard the ship, he’d effectively be in British territory and they could do what they liked.

Standing at the foot of the gangway were two British troopers in full battle gear, their Enfield rifles fixed with bayonets. Menacingly they eyed Ziggy as he and Westerby approached. This is where it ends, thought Ziggy dismally. Oh well, he told himself, at least he’d had a decent run. Sixteen patrols, one hundred sixty thousand tons, two destroyers, and he’d always brought his crew home. That was something. But to his surprise, instead of turning to go up the gangway onto the ship, Westerby walked past it like the Patria wasn’t even there.

“We’re not going aboard?” asked Ziggy.

“Heavens no,” said Westerby with a shudder. “This is a social call.”

They kept walking. The town of Flensburg stood at the far end of the quay. They went past several ancient brick warehouses, and then turned onto a side street, walking past rows of shuttered shop-fronts. Halfway up an alley they came to the back entrance of an old hotel. The door opened and some Wehrmacht officers came out, laughing among themselves, obviously drunk. The sight of Westerby and Ziggy failed to evince any interest from them. One of them even held open the door for them. Going through a small vestibule lined with dustbins and mops, they entered a narrow corridor painted an ugly green, with more soldiers making their way out, buttoning their coats and putting on their caps as they did. They also paid scant attention to Westerby as if the presence of British soldiers was no longer anything exceptional. At the end of the corridor a beefy-looking petty officer guarded a door. He coldly eyed them both, but then, recognizing Westerby, nodded, and ushered them inside.

It was a pub, all right, dark and smoky and smelling of spilled beer, with soldiers and sailors of all ranks sitting clustered in groups at long, battered wooden tables. They weren’t all German, either. More than a few were British. There were even a few Americans. There wasn’t much mixing, but at the same time, nobody seemed particularly bothered by the others’ presence.

“I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any fraternization,” said Ziggy.

“There isn’t,” answered Westerby. “That’s why it’s going on here.”

They went to an empty table in the back of the pub and sat down at one end across from each other. A waiter came, set down three steins of beer, put down a paper chit on the table, put down three marks and moved on.

Ziggy took his beer, sliding it closer to him. Westerby did the same, but then folded his hands on the table like he was waiting patiently.

Ziggy eyed the third beer. “So where’s your colleague?” he asked.

Westerby nodded over to the corner of the room. Ziggy turned to look and noticed a trim figure heading towards them. He recognized him at once. It was his brother Manni, grinning at him like the Cheshire cat. He sat down next to Westerby. “Hello Ziggy,” he said, barely able to contain his effervescence. He pointed to the beer. “Is this for me?”

Ziggy was stunned. He stared at his brother, unable to speak. Westerby gave a slight smirk. “I’d like to introduce you to a colleague of mine,” he said. “But as I can see, you’re already acquainted.”

“What do you mean ‘colleague?’” Ziggy managed to ask.

“What I mean,” answered Westerby unblinkingly, “is that your brother Manfred has been my prize agent for the last ten years.”

Manni flashed out his hands. “Surprise!” he giggled. “You’re not mad, are you?” he asked, with fake anxiousness.

“You’re a British spy?” asked Ziggy, still thoroughly taken aback.

"That’s nothing,” Manni whispered, his eyebrows raised as he leaned forward, “Franzi’s a Russian one.”

Ziggy stared at him for a long time, like he couldn’t be sure any of it was real. Then Westerby cleared his throat. Ziggy saw the exasperated expression on his face. He was obviously irritated by the way Manni was treating what was to him still a deadly serious subject. Looking at Westerby, Ziggy realized for the first time the man was deeply worried.

“Which is why I’ve asked you both here tonight,” said Westerby. “Franzi is in a perilous situation right now, and it’s important we get him out.”

“Come on, Ziggy,” cooed Manni. “Say you’re glad to see me!”

Ziggy ignored him and continued to look at Westerby. Something had gone extremely wrong, that was why he had brought him here. This time he wasn’t just fishing for information. He was in a deep fix and Manni, being Manni, was not being any help.

So Manni, the quintessentially silly person that he was, had been working for the British and despite all that, he’d apparently been successful enough to have survived doing it. Amazing, he thought. And now the war is over and here is Westerby finding out that his prize agent is first and foremost a prize loon!

"I thought you said Franzi was your friend, but here you’re telling me that Manni is your agent. What is going on?”

“Well, you can hardly expect me to reveal the identity of my agent to you while there was still a war on, old boy,” drawled Westerby. “But yes, what I told you was the truth. Franzi was my friend. He is also a brave soldier and spy and right now there are a lot of people after him. I’m going to need your help to get him out of Himmler’s clutches. There is an awful lot at stake here, Captain Loerber. If you’re interested, I’ll explain it to you. Otherwise you’re free to leave now. What is it?"

Ziggy decided to stay.

Once Westerby started speaking, it was as if a veil had dropped, revealing an aspect of him that until now had been hidden. Franzi was in deep trouble but then so was Westerby. In the ten days since Ziggy first met him, he’d found himself on the other side of the looking glass and now there was no longer anyone on his own side he could trust. That was why he’d come to Ziggy now. The situation was desperate and he needed help.

Yes, it was about SS gold, but it was also a lot of other things, other people, other sides, other interests. There wasn’t anything that he could put his finger on. All he really had were a lot of suspicions and definite bad feelings. But for someone in his business that was all he needed.

What was particularly telling, he said, was how much interest there was in Franzi from so many different quarters, but also from his own organization. It didn’t make sense. True, Franzi was now part of Himmler’s inner circle, but then so were a lot of other, more important people, people like Macher, Grothmann, and Gebhardt, except nobody in London was screaming for their hides like they were screaming for poor Franzi Loerber’s, who on the face of it wasn’t anything more than a crackpot homosexual masseur and fortuneteller! No one in London was supposed to know he was a spy. Westerby had gone out of his way to make sure no one did. Why then all the interest?

“You, Captain Loerber, happen to be the first person in creation whom I have informed of that fact. So why is everybody wanting him. I mean, even if they had figured out that he was our Joe, even that should not have excited the interest that it had. Not unless they’d figured out about the Russian connection. But how could that be?”

Westerby explained how it had started. He’d been in Berlin since the 1920s, operating under trade cover of a Swedish businessman. His real job of course had been as a talent spotter for British Intelligence. As a habitué of the Berlin cabaret scene, he’d gotten to know many performers including Franzi and Manni.

Manni hadn’t been Westerby‘s first choice. It had been Franzi and he’d spent more than a year getting to know him and feeling him out. But when he did finally make his pitch, Franzi to his shock and consternation told him he had already gone to work for the Russians. It was something he had already started having doubts about. But you know how it is, he told Westerby; once you’re in, you’re in. The important thing was that he’d at least be fighting fascism this way. Sadly Westerby had to agree and decided not to force the issue. He knew the Bolsheviks weren’t ones to countenance changes of heart. They shook hands and wished each other good luck, maybe we’ll meet again after the war.

Dutifully Westerby wired back ‘no sale!’ to London, without going into any interesting details. Then he proceeded to recruit Manni Loerber, who despite all his incipient silliness, turned out to be an outstanding agent.

By then it was the middle of summer and war was on the horizon. Germany and Russia had just surprised everyone with their sudden entente and their armies were already massing along Poland’s borders. As he was about to leave, Westerby instructed Manni to be ready for the opportunity where he might bring his brother into the fold, though were he to do so, he should under no circumstances reveal his identity to London.

Then, when halfway through the war, Manni began sending material that appeared to originate from SS Headquarters, Westerby surmised Franzi had been won over. Westerby’s bosses were at first delighted, but quickly grew curious, then suspicious. Who was this source? they demanded. Westerby professed ignorance. It was somebody, he told them, somebody Manni knows who’s decided to spill information. Manni can do that, he told them, he’s very charming, very manipulative.

It was nice stuff, but at the same time, it wasn’t anything that could be classified as ‘top drawer.’ The information it provided was more corroborative than anything else. Even so, the overlords remained unduly curious as to who it could be coming from.

He told them he didn’t know. Finally, after a lot of hemming and hawing and beating around the bush, they asked him point-blank if he thought it might be Franzi Loerber. He told them he didn’t think so and gave a number of reason why not. The two brothers had had a serious falling out and weren’t speaking. Being in the Annenherbe, an SS mystical research institute, Franzi was far from the SS mainstream. Besides, he was much more of a committed Nazi than he’d initially thought. To put them off track, Westerby described what a social butterfly Manni was and how he enjoyed a wide circle of acquaintance. It was much more likely that the material was coming from one of those sources. They tried to pick his explanation apart, but Westerby held firm until they seemed to lose interest.

It didn’t last, though. Shortly after that they were back under other pretenses, wanting to know what he knew about Franzi Loerber, what he remembered, what his impressions were of him, never saying why they were interested. He told them as little as he could without appearing like he was holding back on them. But something, he knew, was definitely up.

Westerby had that old-school fieldman’s near-pathological fear of ever letting his employers know too much about anything he felt they didn’t need to know.

Manni slapped his hand upon Westerby’s shoulder. “All this time, Westerby’s been looking out for Franzi, like a guardian angel. I mean this man is a complete prince!” he declared with a surprising gush of emotion.

“It’s true, Captain Loerber,” said Westerby. “There’s been hardly a night during the last three years when I wasn’t worrying about him. I’d thought that if I could come up with something either dull or clever enough I could kill their interest in him, but, I’m sorry to say, that’s not how it worked out. Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been approached by people outside the Service asking about him, all kinds of people. I don’t know how it got out, but it did. Right now, he’s one of the most hunted men in Europe.”

“What kind of other people?” asked Ziggy.

“Germans, Swedes, people who act like they’re Brits or Americans, Russians, Jews. It was bad during the war, but now it’s a flood. Once they get him, they’re all going to tear him apart.”

“Honestly, I thought it would be easy once I got here. My guess was that with all the chaos going on, for a while at least, people would have other things on their minds and I could come in and spirit him away. But I was wrong about that too.”

Westerby ran his finger along the side of his beer glass, wiping off the moisture clinging to its surface. He stared at the glass in angry silence and even Manni didn’t seem to feel compelled to fill in the moment with one of his jokes.

“I figure this is our last chance,” Westerby said finally. “I can’t do this on my own. There’s nobody on my own side I can trust.” Then, to Ziggy’s utter shock, Westerby grabbed his hand and turned it so the palm faced upwards. “Look!” he implored. “Look, Captain Loerber, there must be something you can see! You have to find out where your brother is. You’re our only hope!”

Ziggy stared down helplessly at his palm, not having any idea what he was supposed to be seeing there. He looked back up at Westerby, lost.

“Look!” Westerby repeated, fairly shouting. “Find him!” He wasn’t imploring, he was giving orders, the same way Ziggy had ordered faltering crewmen back to their stations during the worst part of a depth charge attack. “What-do-you-see?”

Ziggy didn’t see anything. He didn’t do palm reading. There wasn’t anything there. It was just a goddamn palm for Christ’s sake, nothing but lines and creases and folds. He knew he had to deliver, had to give Westerby something, anything! He stared harder.

“You must get past your ill feelings,” said Westerby suddenly. “Do it for him, please! He told me about what happened that time. It’s not important, you know that. Do it for him. You’re the only one who can help him now. Without you he’s lost!”

Ziggy burned with embarrassment. He wished Westerby would go away. He wanted to run off away from Westerby, away from Manni. Go back to the calm and safety of Cremer’s Guard Battalion and let what happens happen.

Westerby’s grip tightened on his hand. He could tell Westerby was reading it all. He looked down on his palm. The web of lines on it was as dense and chaotic as the erratic routes of Himmler’s convoy crisscrossing the countryside ahead of their pursuers. Their paths had no apparent destination or goals, merely outrunning the dogs, but never managing to find a haven for very long.

Franzi, was he far or near? What were his eyes seeing? What was he thinking? What did his skin feel? Warmth or cold? Cold or warmth? Cold. Dry or damp? Dry. What was he smelling? Cooked cabbage and tinned beef, cold on a plate. Cigarette smoke, open window and a night breeze, smell of pine. Pine trees outside the window, the wind blowing through them. Ziggy felt his eyes glaze as his focus narrowed, looking past the lines.

They were in a farmhouse, a different one than earlier. They were inland, but still close enough to smell the sea. They’re keeping within reach of Flensburg. Forest nearby, men hiding inside it. A line of kubelwagens hidden under camouflaged tarps. They’re staying put, waiting for something to come. Everyone is tense. Arrangements for escape keep falling through.

“No one’s going anywhere until the gold comes,” Ziggy said aloud.

“Where are they?” asked Westerby.

Ziggy didn’t know.

“Find a landmark!”

He had to get Franzi to go outside and look around. But it was not allowed. Go outside Franzi! Make an excuse, tell him something. The stars! Tell them you have to look at the stars! He could feel Franzi getting up from the table and shuffling outside ignoring the voice, Macher’s, asking him what the hell he thinks he’s doing? But Franzi has already pushed the door open and has stepped outside into the farmyard. The pine trees are roaring in the wind. Franzi turned his head up to stare at the night sky, the broken clouds sailing overhead. Look around, Franzi! Find me a landmark! Something! Nearby was a small stand of pine trees and beyond were fields with a forest beyond it. He could sense Franzi turning around and walking to the front of the farmhouse. There was a lane leading up to a road a hundred yards ahead bordering the farm. Franzi’s eyes followed the road down into a shallow valley where he saw a town full of darkened houses and a church tower and just beyond that there was a castle, low with four stubby towers on the corners, topped with high cone-like roofs. He could see it stood against the shimmering black water of a lake. And then Macher came and grabbed Franzi and the connection was broken.

“That’s definitely Schloss Glucksburg,” Manni said confidently, after Ziggy described what he’d seen.

"Do you know how to get there?” asked Westerby.

Manni chuckled. “Well I should,” he told them. “That’s where I live now,” he announced with a pronounced touch of self-importance. “Me and Speer and General Baumbach.”

“Baumbach of KG200?” asked Westerby. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Well I only met him yesterday,” Manni answered. “Speer wanted me there to help set up his office.”

“Do you think Himmler knows this?” asked Ziggy.

“As a rule of thumb, the Reichsfuhrer knows everything,” quipped Manni. “He still runs all three of Germany’s intelligence services. He should know who his next-door neighbors are.”

“Can you take us there?”

“Sure.”

Westerby turned to Ziggy. “We may need some more help on this. Do you think your friend Cremer would mind cooperating?”

“I could ask.”

Westerby folded his hands together. “I guess now we’re getting somewhere. Talk to Cremer, see what you can get from him. We have to make this work. Franzi has done more to defeat the Nazis than probably anyone in this whole war. And what’s going to happen is the victors will feast on him,” said Westerby.

“Of course Manni here is also a great unsung hero of the war,” he added, not a little sardonically.

Manni waved him off. “Just don’t go including me in any of this. You know me, I’m just a humble entertainer, an artist. I don’t concern myself with the political sphere. That was something Franzi was passionate about, not me!”

They got up to leave. Manni went his own way but Westerby decided to walk back with Ziggy to the Marineschule.

Once again, they slipped back into silence. Ziggy felt like he was now one very big step closer to getting Franzi. Westerby wasn’t such a bad sort, for an Englisher. He could work with him. He decided he should chat him a little about the earlier incident that day, when Westerby’s presence caused such a ruckus at the office.

"You know you managed to get the Grand Admiral riled quite a bit this afternoon,” he said.

"What are you talking about?” asked Westerby.

“Well you weren’t exactly very diplomatic about the way you demanded I go with you for questioning."

“What?”

“To the Patria,” continued Ziggy. “They’re actually still very bitter about the way you guys ejected them from it the other day.”

“I never did anything of the sort,” insisted Westerby.

“Well that’s what they told me you said when you came in with that other guy, acting like we were already your prisoners. The Grand Admiral is trying to be very ‘by the book’ about this, you know.”

“What other guy? I never came by your offices today.”

Ziggy looked at him in alarm.

“You mean some British officers came by today trying to take you to the Patria for questioning?”

“Yes, I was out. The way they described it, I assumed it was you.”

A worried look returned to Westerby’s face. “I’ve got a feeling the dogs are a lot closer on our trail than I’d thought. Be careful, Captain Loerber.”

When they reached the Patria, Westerby drew himself straight to attention and gave Ziggy a stiff salute. It was so far the only remotely military act which Ziggy had seen him perform. Ziggy returned the salute. “I’ll be in touch with you,” said Westerby. “Do talk to Cremer, see if he’s willing to help.”

“I want to thank you for looking out for my brother,” said Ziggy.

“If you’re speaking of Franzi, I’d tell you ‘not at all.’ But if you’re referring to Manfred, I’d tell you war is hell. Good night Captain Loerber.”

He turned and marched up the gangway onto the Patria’s main deck.
(This is a chapter deleted during the final cut of my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).